A Brisk Couple of Days
by Argonaut57
Summary: London, 1943. The Muggle war means nothing to Albus Dumbledore until chance plunges him into a confrontation with a German wizard. His only ally, the feral Canadian called Logan!


**A Brisk Couple of Days**

**Part 1: Meeting in a Dark Alley**

_Dear Charles,_

_As promised, here is an account of my first meeting with Logan, the individual known as Wolverine._

_In that summer of 1943, Muggle Britain was in the midst of what you call the Second World War. You almost certainly know more about the causes and course of that terrible conflict than I do. The Wizarding world knew little and, except among the higher echelons or the insatiably curious, cared rather less about these events. What is significant from my viewpoint is that England was already filling up with soldiers from the Empire and from your country._

_After one of our most difficult years, Hogwarts had closed for the summer holidays. You may have heard Harry and his friends speak of the Chamber of Secrets? The year of 1942-43 had seen the opening and, thankfully, the closing of that Chamber-but not before its dreadful inhabitant killed a student. The events were blamed upon a student named Rubeus Hagrid; over my objections the lad had been expelled. My instincts led me to suspect a boy named Tom Riddle of having had a hand in the matter, but that is a different story._

_That summer, then, I had a great deal on my mind. I had taken to wandering the streets of Muggle London in a suitable guise, in an attempt to find time alone to think. Had I not done so, the consequences might well have been dire for both our worlds!_

London, in 1943, was a city under the shadow of war. The worst of the Blitz was over, though regular air raids still occurred, and the evidence of them was everywhere. Ruined buildings littered the landscape. Though the weather was good, people were stony-faced, worried, and uncommunicative. Even the uniformed soldiers who were beginning to crowd the streets were surprisingly restrained in their behaviour.

This suited Albus Dumbledore's mood very well. He wanted to think, not talk, so he wandered the streets, one drably clad figure among many, and no one questioned or hailed him. He did not notice that his peregrinations had taken him into one of the less salubrious areas of Whitechapel. He was walking down a deserted street when a voice came to his ears.

"This is not the Muggle I ordered brought to me!"

"No, mate, it bloody well ain't! And it won't bloody well never be!"

"My orders were specific!"

"Stuff yer bloody orders, mate! There ain't enough money in all bloody 'Itler's treasure chest to get that one for yer!"

The rough voice became almost conciliatory as it went on. "Look, me old china, you don't come from round 'ere, so yer don't know. That Carver was a busy on this manor before the War. 'E was an 'ard bastard then, and 'e's an 'arder bastard now. That bloke carries a shooter an' 'e don't mind usin' it! If yer want 'im, yer can go an' get 'im yerself. We'll give yer a nice funeral if yer do."

The conversation meant nothing to Dumbledore, but the word _Muggle_ told him that a wizard was involved-a wizard, moreover, who had ordered a particular Muggle brought to him. This kind of interference, except in the direst of emergencies, was strictly forbidden by Wizarding law. Dumbledore should have sent for help-for Aurors, perhaps-but he felt that speed was more important than caution.

He moved as quietly as he could into the alley. Three rough-looking Muggles were restraining a fourth, a slender young man in a blue uniform, while a tall, gaunt figure in dark robes loomed over him. One of the roughs was speaking. "Look, mate, this 'un knows almost as much as Carver. 'E'll know the combination to the safe, and if 'e don't, 'Arry the 'And can crack the bugger. All 'e needs to tell us is where it is!"

"Oh, very well!" The wizard's English was fluent, but had a very slight foreign accent that became more obvious when he said in exasperation, "You! Trink this!"

"Go to Hell!" replied the young man in uniform.

One of the roughs promptly punched him in the gut, doubling him over. "Mind yer manners, sunshine! Yer Mum wouldn't like yer usin' that kind of language!"

"Leave him!" commanded the wizard. "I have a better way!" He pulled a wand from under his robe and levelled it at the uniformed Muggle. Dumbledore had seen enough; he drew his own wand and stepped forward, voicing the command, "_Expelliarmus!_"

The wizard's wand flew out of his hand to cross the alley, and at the same moment, a brawny arm went round Dumbledore's neck from behind. Another coarse voice spoke close to his ear, "Now, that's wasn't very nice, Grandad! Just 'old still, now, or you'll get 'urt."

"Get his wand away!" barked the foreign wizard, scrambling to retrieve his own.

"Give us the stick, old fella," said the man, holding Dumbledore with one hand while using his other to take the wand.

The foreign wizard came back to face Dumbledore. He had a pale, narrow face, blond hair and cold blue eyes that burned with a light that chilled Dumbledore to the bone.

The stranger shrugged. "This is an unfortunate incident. I did not think that British wizards ventured so far into Muggle London. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Reinhardt von Schrader, German wizard and graduate of Durmstrang Academy."

"I am Albus Dumbledore, Professor at Hogwarts School."

The German gave a short bow. "I am honoured. I have heard of you, of course. You have already achieved much. I should be disappointed to have to cut that career short; however, I cannot allow any interference with my mission. So I must ask you, how important to you is the continued existence of our world?"

Dumbledore was surprised. "Our world is under no threat. This conflict is a Muggle war; it doesn't concern wizards."

"I wish that were true. The Fuhrer, however, has shown at least some of us otherwise. We wizards are an integral part of the master race, as the ancient sagas show. Wotan himself was a wizard, the greatest of all. If Germany loses this war, the inferior Muggles will not tolerate us any longer. The only way to preserve our safety is to ensure the victory of the Reich!"

_He's quite mad_, thought Dumbledore, but said nothing. Von Schrader looked hard at him. "I do not ask you to join us, Professor, but if you give me your word that you will say nothing, I am prepared to release you."

Dumbledore was in a quandary. He could obtain his release by simple acquiescence, but that was not so easy a choice as it seemed. If he kept his word, he would be allowing the Wizarding world to be dragged into a war that was not its own. If he broke his word, he would degrade his upbringing and sense of personal integrity.

Fortunately, fate intervened. The man behind him gave a grunt of pain, and the grip on his throat loosened and fell away. Dumbledore snatched for his wand, catching it up and invoking "_Stupefy!_" before von Schrader could react. The German collapsed, but Dumbledore himself was sent flying against a wall by a heavy punch from one of the thugs.

As he leaned back, gasping for breath, he was witness to an extraordinary spectacle. Three hardened denizens of London's underworld confronted the newcomer. The man in military uniform was a short, stocky individual who seemed unperturbed by being outnumbered by men who towered over him. He stared at them all and spoke in a gravelly voice with an accent Dumbledore didn't recognise. "OK, guys. Why don't you make it easy on yourselves, and let me and the old man go our way?"

The leader of the thugs spat. "We might've done if yer 'adn't 'it Joe there from be'ind, like. And if yer wasn't a bloody Yank!"

"Bad mistake, bub. For one thing, I'm Canadian, not a Yank. For another, you just bought yourselves a world of pain!"

Albus Dumbledore was no expert on physical combat-few wizards were-but he knew at once that there was something unusual about the feisty Canadian. The smaller man was far stronger and faster than a normal Muggle. His movements became a blur; his blows were precise and devastating. Within moments, two of the men were down and the third had jumped back, crying, "All, right, mate. Yer asked for this!"

A knife appeared in his hand, and he lunged for the Canadian, who vaulted backwards away from the blade to land in a fighting crouch. Poised in that position, he clenched his fists tighter and growled, "OK, pal, you just made me mad!"

What happened next was both bizarre and frightening. From the back of each hand, three claws extended. They were the colour of ivory, long, wickedly curved and sharp. The Canadian lunged forward, blindingly fast, and the claws slashed across the chest of the knifeman, shredding his clothes and drawing three deep gashes in the flesh. The man screamed and backed up against the wall, cowering with his hands held up. "Please, mister! No more! Don't kill me!"

From the corner of his eye, Dumbledore saw von Schrader lurch to his feet and aim his wand at the Canadian. Dumbledore leapt forward, shouting the word "_Protego!"_ His shield deflected the Death Curse into the damp brick walls. "That's enough, von Schrader!" he barked. "If you kill a Muggle, the consequences will be worse than war!"

"At this moment, Herr Dumbledore," von Schrader retorted, "I am beyond caring for consequences!"

Dumbledore was about to respond when he felt himself seized from behind again, and pushed to the ground with a weight on top of him. He heard the Canadian's voice warning, "Get down, old timer!"

It was hard to describe the sound that followed a split-second later. It was a kind of staccato roar, like a series of sharp crashes following quickly upon one another. A light accompanied the sounds in quick, yellow flashes.

Dumbledore rolled over as the Canadian's weight came off him. He was astonished to see yet another figure joining the fray. This one was tall and powerfully built, but the thing that caught Dumbledore's attention was the Muggle weapon he held levelled at them. He heard von Schrader's voice saying, "This is most regrettable, but sadly necessary. Kill them both, Karl!" There was a sharp double crack, and the new assailant called Karl stiffened suddenly, before collapsing to the ground.

From behind him, another man emerged, a burly figure in a dark blue uniform like that of von Schrader's erstwhile prisoner. The man spoke in a low-toned, educated voice. "I think you two gentlemen can get up, now." He looked past them and went on. "Herr von Schrader, I presume? It would be best if you surrendered now, sir. I assure you, I can get off an accurate shot with this pistol far more quickly than you can cast a curse. Even if that weren't the case, I very much doubt that your capabilities are a match for Professor Dumbledore's, now that he is prepared for you."

Dumbledore stood and aimed his wand at von Schrader, at the same time wondering how this Muggle knew who he was. Von Schrader stared at them both for a moment, then turned to Dumbledore. "You fool! Ask him about the Manhattan Project! _Ask_ him!" The German Disapparated with an echoing boom.

The Muggle swore softly. "Damn! I hoped he'd be too shaken up for that. It seems our von Schrader has more steel in him than I'd given him credit for."

Dumbledore was barely listening; he was more concerned with his original rescuer, who had not yet risen. He leaned down, asking, "Are you all right? Here, let me assist you."

When he extended a hand to help the man to his feet, the Canadian proved to be surprisingly heavy. As he got up, Dumbledore saw blood on the front of the uniform jacket. "You're wounded!" Dumbledore said, alarmed.

The other man looked down at his chest. "Yeah. Sonuva bitch with the Schmeisser nailed me a couple good ones. Just through-and-throughs, though, and they're only nine-mil. Missed the heart and lungs."

"We need to get you some help!" Dumbledore cried.

The Canadian shook his head. "Nah. I'll be OK in a minute. Look!" He pulled the uniform open to reveal an ugly-looking wound which, as Dumbledore watched with mouth agape, sealed itself, leaving only a small scar.

"Bullets loused up the uniform, though. They'll probably take that out of my pay!"

"Oh, I think they'll consider it damaged in the line of duty, Sgt Logan," said the other Muggle. "But I'm forgetting my manners! I'm Commander Andrew Carver, of His Britannic Majesty's Royal Navy, at your service, gentlemen. As I suspect neither of you has had a chance to introduce yourselves, allow me to do that, as well. Professor Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry meet Sgt Logan, Canadian Army.

"Now, if you will excuse me, I need to make a few arrangements. Please remain here. I will need to talk to you both, but we can do that somewhere more comfortable in a few minutes."

Carver turned and left the alley, calling out as he did so, "Lt Waverley? Over here, please!"

Dumbledore turned to Logan. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine...Professor. So, you're a wizard? I've seen some weird things in my time, but never a genuine wizard with a magic wand!"

"Well, Sergeant," Dumbledore admitted, "I've never seen a wound heal like that before. It seems we've both encountered something new today."

Logan grinned. "Oh, brave new world, that has such creatures in it!"

Dumbledore was surprised; he knew the line came from that greatest of Muggle playwrights, William Shakespeare, but he was surprised to find this rough-spoken Colonial quoting it in a quiet, cultured voice completely at variance with his earlier speech. There was clearly more to Dumbledore's new acquaintance than met the eye!

Just then, Carver returned, accompanied by a slender young man in Army uniform and several men dressed as labourers. "Waverley, can you see to it that this mess is cleared up? No need to involve the police at this stage, I think."

He came over to Dumbledore and Logan, pulling out a packet of Senior Service cigarettes as he did so. He offered them to both men, Dumbledore refused, but Logan accepted one gratefully. Carver drew reflectively on his, and then seemed to reach a decision. "You two had best come with me. I'm in the somewhat unusual position of needing outside help, but at the same time I'm reluctant to involve other agencies at this stage. Follow me, please!"

He set off; Dumbledore made to follow him, but Logan caught his arm. "Wait a minute," he hissed. "We gotta be careful, here. Navy or not, that guy's no sailor. I know a G-man when I smell one. Just listen, and don't say too much. Heaven knows what we're likely to find ourselves mixed up in."

Carver led them to a small motorcar. A pretty, redheaded young woman in uniform was waiting behind the steering wheel. Carver opened the rear door and gestured his guests to enter, then went round to sit in the front passenger seat and instructed the driver to take them "To the office, please, Jenny."

"Yes, Commander." The words were formal, but the tone and the sparkling glance she gave him spoke to a less professional relationship. Dumbledore saw Logan's nostrils flare slightly, and the Canadian soldier grinned and winked at him. Dumbledore was becoming quite fascinated by his new ...friend? He owed the man his life, he supposed, so why not call him friend?

A short drive brought them to a drab-looking office building, well outside the bustle of the City itself. As they ascended the short flight of steps to the door, Dumbledore noticed the small, rather tattered notice that hung there: _Combined Forces Bureau for Special Logistics_.

Carver led them through some dingy corridors and up a few flights of stairs before ushering them into a small office. He gestured them to two chairs in front of a desk, then seated himself behind it. "Bear with me a moment," he said. He picked up a telephone and dialled a single number. "Chief Turner? Could you bring the files I asked for, please? Thank you. Yes, tea would be nice, for three if you would."

He put the phone down, pulled a pad towards him, and scribbled furiously on it for a few moments. In a remarkably short time, there was a knock at the door, and a formidable-looking woman, also in Naval uniform, entered carrying two manila folders. Tall and raw-boned, she had a face that had quite clearly seen everything and had not been impressed by it. Nevertheless, as she approached Carver, her expression softened into a kind of motherly affection. "Here are the files, Commander," she said. "Tea will be along in a minute."

He smiled up at her and his cold grey eyes suddenly twinkled, as they had at the driver. "Thanks, Chief. Gentlemen, this is my right hand, Chief Petty Officer Turner. Chief, these are Sgt Logan and Professor Dumbledore. I hope they'll be working with us for a while, and I expect you to look after them as well as you do me!"

Chief Turner looked the visitors up and down appraisingly. "As you say, Commander. Will there be anything else?"

Carver handed her a page torn from the pad. "Two signals. One to the C-in-C Canadian forces in Britain, the other to the Minister of Magic, please."

"Aye, aye sir!" Turner said briskly before she left.

Dumbledore could no longer restrain himself. "Excuse me, Commander, but how does a...a..."

"Muggle? I'm not insulted by the name, Professor. You were about to ask me how I know about you, Hogwarts, the Ministry and the Wizarding world in general. Quite simply, it's my business to know what other people don't. Sgt Logan has probably deduced that I'm not an ordinary Naval officer. I should be disappointed, however, if you were even slightly aware that the Secret Service has been keeping an eye on your world since the days of Sir Francis Walsingham."

The Commander flipped open one of the files that lay in front of him. "Ah, here you are: Albus Dumbledore, born around 1850, educated Hogwarts School." Carver went onto give a quick and disturbingly accurate account of Dumbledore's life. He summarised by saying, "A man of principle and courage, unafraid to go against the majority and the obvious, as recent events at Hogwarts show. By the way, I think you're right about the Hagrid boy; he's not the type."

Carver opened the other file. "Sgt Logan, no apparent Christian name, no fixed abode, but hails from Alberta, Canada. Joined the Army as a volunteer, excellent service record bar a few brawls, promoted to Sergeant when your unit was sent out here. Again, noted for courage and principled behaviour - even in a punch-up - but known to be hot-tempered." Slapping the file shut, the Commander concluded, "So much for the official record; however, as with the Professor, there is more.

"In early 1915, a man calling himself James Logan turned up in an Army recruiting office in Liverpool, asking to volunteer for service. Such papers as he had showed that he had worked his passage aboard a merchant ship from Canada. We were desperate for people in those days, and the Ministry of War wasn't asking too many questions if a loyal son of the empire offered his services!

"Private Logan had a distinguished service record, and was recommended for decoration twice, once by a British officer - Major Hugh Drummond - and once by an American - Col. Clark Savage, Jr. At the end of the Great War, the man called Logan disappeared without collecting any of the honours due him."

"That would be my Pop," said Logan firmly.

"Quite," murmured Carver. "What do you think, Professor?" He passed a photograph across the table. It showed a very large man in uniform, standing next to a stocky figure who bore an uncanny resemblance to Sgt Logan.

"The man on the right is Major Drummond," Carver noted. "As for the fellow on the left..."

Dumbledore observed, "The likeness is remarkable. Without Sgt Logan's explanation, I would have said it was the same man."

"Just so," replied Carver. "Now look at this, if you please."

The photograph was a very early one, sepia-toned. It showed a young couple in what Dumbledore recognised as late Victorian dress. The girl was lovely, but the man, though clearly younger-looking, was again virtually identical to his new Canadian friend.

Carver explained, "The young man is named James Howlett. Born 1885 in Canada, educated at home until the age of twelve, then sent to England, to a minor public school - the Camberwick College for Young Gentlemen. The Howletts were a wealthy family, but in trade, and had no tradition before James of sending boys away to school.

"James' school reports show him as a better than average student, but hot-tempered when challenged on a point of principle. He returned to Canada to work with his father and began to court a young lady named Rose - the lady in the picture.

"Unfortunately, shortly after that picture was taken, the older Howlett was murdered, and his killer subsequently mauled to death by an unidentified large animal. James and Rose disappeared. Some months after that, Rose's body was found in the Alberta woods by the Mounted Police. James Howlett has never reappeared."

At that moment, the tea arrived, served by a pretty, young WRN who had a bright smile for Carver. After she left, Logan took a swallow of tea, then said,

"This is all fascinating, Commander, but I don't see the relevance."

Dumbledore noticed that the Canadian now spoke in the same cultured tones he had used earlier.

Carver smiled. "The Howlett file was sent to Scotland Yard, in case James turned up in England. I saw it there, when I was a young detective constable given the task of looking through old cases. The War Office held the files on Pte Logan, hoping one day to give him his medals. An eagle-eyed young clerk at the Office spotted the resemblance between today's Logan and yesterday's. As with anything out of the ordinary, the matter was reported to this Bureau.

"I have an eidetic memory, so I remembered the Howlett file when I saw the Logan ones. I was curious but had no reason to pursue the matter until today.

"I was having Professor Dumbledore followed-wizards wandering around London in wartime need to be looked after-and I was watching our friend von Schrader for different reasons.

"You can imagine my concern when I was notified that the Professor had wandered into a confrontation with von Schrader. I came out at once, only to find that the mysterious Canadian had decided to join the party! Odd coincidence, wouldn't you say?"

"Could it be anything else, Commander?" asked Dumbledore.

Carver shrugged. "There are forces acting on both our worlds, Professor, that are beyond our current understanding. Herr Hitler places great faith in the supernatural; I keep an open mind."

"There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," murmured Logan.

"Precisely, Sergeant," replied Carver, "yourself among them. I am sorry, but normal family resemblance does not account for your uncanny similarity to both James Logan and James Howlett. I am forced to the conclusion that all three are the same man!"

Logan exhaled heavily. "No one's called me James Howlett in a long time. I left that name behind when Rose died." He paused reflectively, then added, "I have no idea what I am or why I heal faster than anyone I've ever heard of. I'm strong and fast; I have claws and senses like an animal's. Above all, I never seem to age. When I hit thirty, I just stopped growing older.

"Knowing this about me, people would call me a monster. Scientists would want to prod and poke me - cut me up to see how I work! So I stick to the woods. I hunt, trap, and make a little money that way, working in the logging camps in season, doing some prize-fighting sometimes. It's a good life, even if it's not what I was brought up to be.

"But this war, and the last one, they're too important for me to ignore. So I came over to do what I could. Only this time, I got caught." He smiled wryly. "What happens now?"

Carver pushed the files away from him and sat back. He pulled out the Senior Service packet again, but Logan forestalled him, offering a Marlboro, which Carver accepted gratefully.

"As far as I am concerned," he said, "James Howlett died at the same time as his lady friend, but _his_ remains were never found. Pte James Logan might have been your father, Sergeant, so we will leave it at that.

"You are correct in assuming that our medical boffins would love to get their hands on you. Your heightened senses, physical abilities and accelerated healing are talents they would like to be able to duplicate for military use. To my mind, however, experimentation on someone who, despite his _differences_, is ultimately human would bring us down to the level of the Nazis." Carver grimaced but went on. "But we are at war, so however reluctantly, I must ask a _quid pro quo_ for my silence."

Logan nodded. "That's fair, I guess."

Carver looked relieved. He said, "Professor Dumbledore, Herr von Schrader mentioned the Manhattan Project. I take it this meant nothing to you?"

"Nothing whatever," Dumbledore admitted.

The Commander rubbed his face. "Very well," he said at last. "What I am about to tell you must _not_ leave this room, gentlemen! Do I have your words?"

Logan looked to Dumbledore who looked to Carver. They nodded.

And so it began.

**Part 2: Into Deadly Ground**

_By now, Charles, you can imagine my state of mind. A brush with death, an encounter with a wizard who was clearly insane, and the extraordinary nature of my two new acquaintances had quite shaken me._

_There was, however, to be little time for me to collect myself. Commander Carver's revelations, and the events that followed, left no space for reflection until after it was all over._

Commander Carver steepled his hands in front of him as he spoke. "The Manhattan Project is a scientific one, sponsored by the American military. It is concerned with a relatively new branch of science called nuclear physics. I'm afraid that my grammar-school science isn't up to explaining the background fully, but I do know the aim of the project.

"As both of you will be aware, literally thousands of tons of high-explosive and incendiary bombs have been dropped on London alone since the beginning of the War. Yet, as you see, the city still functions - sometimes by the skin of its teeth, admittedly - but much still stands. The city of Coventry, in the Midlands, has suffered a far worse attack, one of the biggest raids ever mounted. The place has been devastated; its ancient cathedral lies in ruins, yet the factories still work. Life goes on.

"Because of the apparent failure of mass bombing to end the War, both sides are devoting intense scientific research to developing more powerful bombs. The Manhattan Project is part of this. Apparently, the outcome will be a weapon so powerful that a single strike could demolish an entire city."

Dumbledore shrugged. "It seems to me, Commander, that this hardly concerns my world."

Carver nodded. "Yes, the wizard shields over Diagon Alley and its environs are effective in keeping conventional weapons out, but our scientists are concerned about the larger effects of these so-called 'hydrogen' or 'atomic' bombs.

"Some fear that the bombs will start what they call a 'chain reaction', which will rip the entire world apart. Others say that the bombs will leave behind a poisonous residue, which will seep into the soil and water, causing all kinds of ill effects that will eventually damage every kind of life on Earth. Those consequences would certainly affect your world, Professor."

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. Could Muggles really be so foolish? He knew so little about their world. Like most wizards, he ignored Muggles except for those who were married to wizards, or whose children were born wizards and came to Hogwarts. Perhaps he should attempt to find out more? But now Logan was speaking.

"I heard rumors about this, Commander - soldiers' gossip. But where does this von Schrader character fit in?"

Carver opened yet another file. "Reinhardt von Schrader is a German wizard who attended Durmstrang Academy in the normal way. As far as we can gather, he is a pureblood, from an old wizarding family and, at school, he fell in with a crowd of similar youngsters.

"In Europe, as in Britain, it seems that some pureblood wizards are none too keen on the increasing numbers of half-blooded and Muggle-born children entering the wizarding world. Is that not the case, Professor?"

Dumbledore sighed. "It is, Commander. There have always been those who felt that we should keep the old Wizarding bloodlines pure, discourage marriage with Muggles, and ignore Muggle-born wizards - 'Mudbloods', they call them. Rather foolish, given the limited number of pureblood families; we would very soon become far too inbred."

"Quite so," Carver went on. "It appears that von Schrader and his cronies found some commonality with Herr Hitler and his obsession with the purity of the so-called 'Aryan race'.

"Given the Fuhrer's other obsession with the occult, it would have been easy for them to get his attention. After that, who knows what happened? All we can say is that von Schrader, at least, seems to have become a convinced Nazi, and wishes to draw the wizarding world into the war on the German side."

Dumbledore gave a sad shake of his head. "Poor von Schrader is entirely insane, I'm afraid."

Logan grunted. "If this is goin' where I think it's goin', Professor, the guy's crazy all right, but crazy like a fox."

He turned to Carver. "Von Schrader is after proof about this Manhattan Project so he can use it to convince wizards everywhere to join up with Hitler?"

"Right on the mark, Sergeant." Carver smiled grimly. "There are documents in this office which, if laid properly before the Wizengamot, would make a strong argument for a suspension of wizard neutrality."

"Which is why," broke in Dumbledore, "von Schrader wanted his men to kidnap you, Commander. You would naturally know where these documents were, yet it seems his cohorts were rather afraid of you."

Craver grinned, tossing another cigarette across the table to Logan. "Before the war, I was a policeman. I had a reputation for being someone you wouldn't want to mess with. It seems that reputation remains intact.

"However, gentlemen, you do see my problem. I could inform the Ministry of Magic, and they could send Aurors after von Schrader, but there is very little they could hold him on. Your intervention, Professor, prevented him from using magic against a Muggle, for instance. Furthermore, von Schrader commands several bodyguards from Hitler's elite SS Leibstandarte regiment. These are crack troops, trained to a hair, and any confrontation with them would be a bloody one.

"Aurors alone would face serious losses in dealing with the SS men, and my people would be unable to cope with a wizard easily. An official joint operation, even what is called a 'black' one, would seriously compromise wizard neutrality - something neither the Ministry of Magic nor the War Office is prepared to do.

"Which brings me to you two. Both of you have reputations that indicate your willingness to bend the rules a little in a good cause. You, Sgt Logan, have abilities that make you far more dangerous than any SS trooper, and you, Professor Dumbledore, are more than a match for von Schrader, wizard to wizard. I have already arranged for your temporary secondment to this Bureau, and it's my hope that you'll both volunteer to assist me in this crisis."

"And if we don't?" asked Logan.

Carver shrugged. "Then I wish you good afternoon, and you go your ways. But I must ask you both never to mention today's events."

Logan thought for a moment, then noted, "There's a guy I've heard of-this seems more his kind of thing than mine - they call him Captain America."

Carver snorted. "Sergeant, if I had any use for a Boy Scout, I'd go to the church hall down the street from my house in Malvern - they've got a whole troop of them there. I need somebody who can fight dirty and do it _quietly_."

"Well, that'd be me," Logan admitted. "You're pretty smart, Commander. For a grammar school boy," he added.

"Don't!" groaned Carver. "I get enough of that from Waverley."

Dumbledore made up his mind. "As I said, Commander, von Schrader is quite mad, and so represents a great threat to my world as well as yours. I am willing to do what I can to assist you."

"Seems to me," said Logan, "somebody has to look after the old-timer here, so I guess I'm in."

Dumbledore couldn't help but smile, appearances to the contrary, his new friend was not actually so very much younger than he.

"Thank you both," said Carver gravely. "Now, I think it best that you two take some time to make each other's acquaintance more fully." He took a card from a desk drawer and passed it to Dumbledore. "My people are trying to locate von Schrader's headquarters. We know it's in the Muggle city, because he couldn't take his bodyguards into Wizarding London without drawing undue attention. Be at this location at 10:00 tonight; you'll be contacted.

Carver rose from his seat and shook both men's hands. "Chief Turner will see to your needs, gentlemen. I will see you later, I hope."

It was by now early evening, and dinner was definitely on the agenda. Since Dumbledore had neither Muggle money nor something called a Ration Card, Chief Petty Officer Turner escorted them to a rather well worn, but very clean, canteen. There a blowsy, heavily made-up woman in her fifties, who introduced herself as Doris, served them sausage, egg and chips, followed by bread-and-butter pudding, all washed down with strong, sweet tea.

After that, they went out into the city, and Logan followed his nose to a decent-enough pub within striking distance of the rendezvous point. Over pints of foaming bitter ("I can't get used to warm beer," grumbled the Canadian.), the two men began to know each other.

The only Muggles Dumbledore had had many dealings with were the sometimes over-anxious parents of Muggle-born students. Sergeant Logan, by those standards, was far from an ordinary man. Though he spoke most often in the rough idiom of the lumberjacks and farmers he knew best, he occasionally slipped into the tones of the English public-school man. He had a pleasant line in dry, caustic humour, and grew almost lyrical when he spoke of the Alberta woods he called home.

Yet there was a darker side to these tales. Husbands and fathers who brutally mistreated their families had fallen foul of Logan more than once. Children lost in the woods and in peril had been guided home. There had been hard winters when the starving wolves and bears came dangerously close to isolated settlements, and Logan took it upon himself to protect the families who scratched a living there. He told of encounters with creatures from the wizarding world-the lumbering, powerful but gentle Sasquatch, and the more dangerous, violent one called the Wendigo.

After these adventures, Logan told Dumbledore, he had gained a nickname among the people of the woods, a name taken from an animal that showed the same qualities of strength, tenacity, fearlessness and occasional savagery. They called him the _Wolverine_.

In his turn, Logan studied the enigmatic wizard. A man who trusted the evidence of his senses but little else, Logan had never had much time for the supernatural - at least as it manifested itself in the churches and chapels that sprouted in every little village and town. But he had seen a great many odd things in his lifetime, so was not prepared to say that anything was impossible. He had seen with his own eyes evidence of power from both Dumbledore and von Schrader, and what he saw, he believed.

According to Carver, Dumbledore was over 100 years old, but he looked about sixty or so, and hale and hearty to boot. His hair was auburn, thick and vigorous, and his blue eyes were bright and curious. He talked about the school in which he taught, the students and the skills they learned, but also about the Castle itself, with its odd nooks and crannies, unexpected rooms and hidden dangers. Dumbledore told Logan about hair-raising trips into the Forbidden Forest near the school, with its magical creatures and lurking terrors. Then, in the same tone of almost child-like delight and wonder, he spoke of clandestine visits in his own student days to a place called the Astronomy Tower, to tryst with a succession of pretty, young witches.

_The old guy has spirit and guts_, thought Logan, _but he's no fighter, at least not_ _in the same way I am._ Logan figured that, up against von Schrader, Dumbledore was more than equal to any danger. But if it came to a fist fight, then it would be up to him to look out for his new friend.

All too soon, the time for the rendezvous came round, and the two men ventured out into the near total darkness of blacked-out London. The summer sky was clear, but the ever-present smoke from the factories shrouded the moon and stars. Fortunately, Logan's heightened senses included excellent night-vision; all Dumbledore had to do was follow his companion.

Suddenly, Logan stopped and sniffed the air. "Someone's up ahead," he whispered, "a woman. She's carrying a gun. I can smell the oil."

"Commander Carver said we would be met," pointed out Dumbledore. "He didn't say by whom."

"All right," Logan allowed, "but we better be cagey. We'll go in wide apart so she has to decide which of us to aim at. Keep your wand ready, Albus, and be careful."

The woman stood at the precise spot of the rendezvous, appearing quite relaxed. She was rather tall, with a good but slim figure, wearing a light summer frock with a raincoat open over it. Blonde hair peeped out from under a patterned headscarf, and her face was strikingly pretty, with large, clear, blue eyes. She watched the two men's cautious approach with a little smile. "My, my," she said, grinning. "Two men so scared of little me? I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted."

Then her tone became brisk. "You'll be Professor Dumbledore, and you're Sgt Logan. I'm Anthea Featherstone. I work for Cmdr Carver. I was asked to meet you here and take you to von Schrader's hideout."

Logan growled, "Why should we trust you? How do we know you're who you say you are? Carver didn't give us a password or anything."

Anthea sighed. "Passwords are all very well, Sergeant, as long as everybody remembers them. There's also the fact that, if you know a password, somebody can always come along and stick matches under your fingernails until you tell them what it is.

"Look, Lt Waverley called me in while you were at the Bureau. I was waiting outside when you left, so I got a good look at you both. The fact that I know your names should tell you something. Von Schrader knows you both by sight, but he doesn't know Sgt Logan's name, so he couldn't tell it to anyone."

Featherstone pursed her lips. "But, if you insist, Professor Dumbledore here can read my mind-enough at least to know I'm telling the truth. Professor?"

Dumbledore, rather reluctantly, raised his wand, invoking "_Legilimens!"_ A moment later, he turned to Logan. "She's telling the truth."

"Good enough for me," said Logan. "So, Miss Featherstone, where do we go from here?"

"Come with me, gentlemen. Oh, and do try and look as if you're enjoying yourselves."

The part of London into which they were headed was not one of the nicer ones. Logan was reminded of some of Dickens' grimmer passages as they penetrated the maze of grimy alleys full of close-leaning, decaying houses. These were the streets Jack the Ripper had prowled, and perhaps worse killers.

Finally, they came into a gloomy, little square lined with houses that had once been elegant, well-proportioned Georgian homes, but had long since been divided into cheap flats accommodating the rootless and impecunious for a few months or a year. In the middle of the square was a little flowerbed with a small tree in the centre. The iron railings had been taken away at the beginning of the war, the flowers were untended, and the tree looked ragged and bereft.

Anthea Featherstone indicated a house. "Von Schrader and six bodyguards live in the basement flat over there. One man's always in the area, in front of the door. From time to time, two of them take a stroll round this square."

"You mean like those two?" hissed Logan as two tall men came up the area steps. The stocky Canadian melted into the shadows without a sound. Dumbledore was on the verge of casting a Disillusionment Charm when Anthea seized him and pushed him back against the tree. "Hold me," she hissed, then pressed her mouth to his.

It occurred to Dumbledore, as his arms instinctively went around her slim body, that his companion was a stickler for verisimilitude. She was kissing him with every indication of genuine passion and, though it had been some time since Albus had had occasion to indulge in osculation, he found that his memory on the subject was very clear. He tried to keep his eyes and ears open for the patrol, but Anthea's determination to maintain their cover made concentration a little difficult. He was vaguely aware of two figures passing nearby, one making a short, wry comment in what he took to be German, and the other responding with a laugh.

Dumbledore was not sure how long he and Anthea remained locked in this necessary but interesting subterfuge. He finally became aware of Logan clearing his throat rather loudly. Dumbledore firmly but gently disengaged himself from Anthea, cleared his own throat and asked, "Are they gone?"

"Went some time ago," was Logan's laconic reply.

"You might have let us know," said Dumbledore.

Logan grinned. "Could have, but you two seemed so wrapped up in what you were doing, I didn't want to interrupt."

"Really, Logan!" Dumbledore protested.

Anthea laughed, a silvery tinkle. "Why, Albus, weren't you enjoying yourself? I was," she said mischievously. "I know I was being a bit naughty, but none of my other gentleman friends have been wizards, so I might never have got another chance."

"Well, now you have," said Dumbledore, "what's the next move?"

Anthea became brisk again. "Right. We know von Schrader brought six SS men to England with him using one of those magical oojahs-"

"Portkeys," Dumbledore supplied helpfully.

"Yes, one of those. Commander Carver shot one of the bodyguards this afternoon, which leaves five. One of them will be down in the area, so there'll be four in the house. Their CO, Obersturmfuhrer Maybach, will be with von Schrader. He rarely leaves his side unless he has a special task, as he did today.

"Sgt Logan, our job is to get the Professor past the guards so he can deal with von Schrader. Our brief is to capture him and Maybach alive, if possible. The rest are expendable."

Dumbledore shuddered; this pretty, obviously warm-hearted young woman spoke so calmly about killing. She noticed his reaction, and looked at him with shadowed eyes. "I don't like it, but we're in a war, here! These men aren't Wehrmacht, they're SS - Nazi fanatics. They won't hesitate to kill us, or themselves, to avoid capture. I'll do what I have to do, and so will the Sergeant."

Dumbledore said firmly, "I will not take a life, even to save my own."

"You won't have to," said Logan, eyeing his friend with grave respect. "Miss Featherstone and I will do what's necessary. You just keep yourself safe, and concentrate on von Schrader."

Logan squinted into the darkness. "Our first job is to deal with that guard down in the area. I might be able to sneak up on him, but I can't guarantee to put him down without making a noise."

"Ah. Now _that_ I can, and will, do something about," said Dumbledore. "Wait here a moment."

He forced himself to walk casually towards the house. As he passed, he glanced down into the area and saw the figure leaning against the wall next to the door. Dumbledore walked on a few more steps, then spun, whipping out his wand, and Petrified the guard. He signalled the others over, and they slipped quickly down the steps.

Logan quietly tried the door, "Locked."

Dumbledore smiled, saying, "_Alohomora!"_ The door swung silently open, revealing a narrow hallway with cracked linoleum flooring, illuminated by a single, dim light bulb.

"We'd better get in quick," whispered Anthea, "before the ARP Warden spots the light. They're always right where you don't need 'em."

She and Logan went in first, and Dumbledore followed, closing the door silently behind them. Anthea reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a revolver - not the small, nickel-plated, low-calibre weapon Logan expected, but a businesslike Webley that looked almost too heavy for her to aim. Keeping in front of Dumbledore, the young woman and the Canadian advanced silently towards the first of the doors.

Unfortunately, it was the further door that opened first, and two men stepped out into the hallway. One was von Schrader; the other was an equally tall, slender, blond man in a drab blue suit. They spotted the intruders almost immediately. Von Schrader darted back into the room they had come from, while the other man bellowed something in German that brought three more out from another room, all armed.

Dumbledore acted faster than he had since he gave up Quidditch. Almost without thought, he Apparated past the guards to the doorway von Schrader had gone into, Stunned the man who could only be Maybach, and went after the German wizard. As he went, he heard a single shot, and the sounds of a fight broke out behind him.

The room was surprisingly large, or seemed so, perhaps because the only furnishings were two pallets on the floor. Apart from the faded wallpaper, the sole decoration was a large portrait of a pasty-faced, grim-looking Muggle with thin dark hair and a tiny, silly moustache.

Von Schrader stood in the centre of the room, wand in hand. He sneered at Dumbledore, saying, "So. It seems you did not ask the question I advised, Herr Professor."

Dumbledore shrugged, "I asked; the Commander answered. I was satisfied with his answers."

"Then you are a fool." Without another word, von Schrader attacked.

It had been quite some time since Albus Dumbledore had duelled, but to his surprise, he found that he had lost none of his proficiency. His skills clearly shocked von Schrader as well. Neither man moved, standing about six feet apart, but their wands flickered back and forth while the air sizzled with magic. Deflected curses knocked chunks of plaster out of the walls and gouged long, blackened scars in the wooden floor. Somewhere outside, Dumbledore heard more shots, and one full-throated male scream.

The sounds drove him to more intense efforts. Fear growing in his eyes, von Schrader began to give ground. Dumbledore redoubled his attacks, wanting to end this quickly. He was concentrating so intently on his opponent that he noticed nothing else until a heavy blow on the back of his head sent him to the floor.

In the narrow space of the hallway, Logan and Anthea had lost track of Dumbledore. The boom of his Disapparation had had several effects: One was to temporarily paralyse the three Germans with shock; the other was to cause Anthea's shot to go wild, slamming into the doorframe. Logan recovered first, and piled into the three SS men with a feral snarl.

It was impossible for Anthea to shoot without a risk of hitting her ally. She began to slip along the wall, trying to make her way past the melee in the hope of finding Dumbledore. One of the Germans caught sight of her and turned, knocking her to the floor with a brutal slap.

Logan, despite his words to Dumbledore, was not willing to kill even these men unless it was absolutely necessary, so he kept his claws sheathed. The space was too cramped for his speed and agility to be of any use; it was stand your ground and give and take. Against three fit, highly-trained opponents, Logan was taking more than he was giving, but his healing ability, strength and sheer stubbornness prevented him from going down under the pounding, and his enemies were beginning to flag.

Then, following what must have been a practised manoeuvre, one man stepped back while the other two hurled themselves at the Canadian's arms, pinning them to his sides. The third man drew a pistol and aimed it directly between Logan's eyes.

Whatever twist of fate, God or Devil had made Logan what he was had imposed some limits. The Canadian knew that not even he could survive a bullet to the brain. But it wasn't in his nature to give up, and he had one trick left. Swivelling his head sharply to the left so he was nearly peering over his own shoulder, Logan's temple now lay alongside the barrel. If the gun went off, he'd be deafened and probably stunned, but alive. He'd bought himself precious seconds.

Anthea had kept a grip on her revolver. She struggled to her knees and put two rounds into the spine of one of the men holding Logan, killing him instantly. Logan was pulled down as the dead man slumped to the floor, so the shots from the German's Walther hit Logan's other captor.

The gunman brought his P-38 to bear on Anthea, who managed to roll to one side as his bullet buried itself in the floor where she had been. Then Logan was on him. A red mist blurred the Canadian's vision as the blood pounded in his ears; for a moment, he was in the grip of his ever-present fear - the Berserker rage that had shaped the entire tragedy of James Howlett's life. Claws springing from his hands, Logan slashed at the German's gun-arm, almost severing the limb. The man's face contorted in shock and agony when the claws opened his throat.

As his enemy collapsed, Logan looked around, hunting for more foes. A small figure crouched behind him, and he tensed. The scent was female. Logan saw her mouth moving.

The gunshots so close to his head had rendered him stone deaf. But, in the midst of the heat and the pounding and the redness, a small, cool area opened in Logan's Berserk mind. This was how Rose had died. _No_! Logan vowed, as he had vowed then, _Not again. Never again_. He took a deep breath, and sheathed his claws.

His hearing and his normal personality returned. He said roughly, "It's OK, Miss Featherstone. I've got it under control, now."

"WHAT? CAN'T HEAR A THING," she shouted, rubbing her ears and eyeing him warily as she scrambled to her feet. "ALBUS?"

Logan's head shot up, spotting Obersturmfuhrer Maybach through the doorway at the end of the hall. Strange lights, odd sounds and a peculiar metallic smell were emanating from the room beyond. Anthea followed his gaze, and squeezed off a shot toward Maybach too late, for he'd moved away from the door.

Logan heard a blow and the thud of a falling body. He dashed into the room with Anthea on his heels to see Maybach standing over a fallen Dumbledore.

"DON'T MOVE!" commanded Anthea. Von Schrader pointed his wand at the portrait of Hitler and muttered something. The picture, and the section of wall it hung on, vanished to reveal a doorway.

"Come, Heinrich," urged von Schrader.

"I'LL FIRE," Anthea yelled. But just as she squeezed the trigger, von Schrader leapt to his bodyguard's side, yelling "_Protego!_"

The bullet spanged off the silvery shield. Logan threw himself at Anthea, knocking her down before the ricochet could take her head off. The two Germans seized the opportunity to dart through the doorway.

Logan and Anthea got to their feet and went over to Dumbledore, who was sitting up and rubbing his head. "Oof!" he groaned. "I'm getting too old for this sort of thing. And my ears are ringing." He tapped his head with his wand, then relaxed, obviously feeling better.

Anthea knelt in front of him, patting his hand. "Nonsense, Albus. You're only as old as you feel," she soothed loudly.

Logan's nostrils flared; clearly this striking young woman didn't consider age a barrier to some feelings. The Canadian found himself rather amused, especially as he suspected that his wizard friend had no idea of the effect he was having on Anthea, who was inspecting him carefully for injuries.

"My head's still attached," Dumbledore assured her, "but that's about all I'm certain of. Er, why are you shouting?"

"Gunshots deafened her temporarily," Logan told him.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Anthea asked Dumbledore.

"Three very elegant ones," Dumbledore replied, realising only after he'd spoken that she hadn't heard his gentle jest. He held up three fingers. She nodded happily. He stroked her head gently with his wand to restore her hearing and was rewarded by a brilliant smile and an impulsive kiss on the cheek.

Clearing his throat, Dumbledore asked Logan, "Now, where is von Schrader? I almost had him before that whack on the head."

"He went through here with Maybach - or I'd guess it was Maybach," said Logan. "There's steps leading down. This whole city is probably honeycombed with old tunnels and passages; they'll hope to lose us in there. Of course, with me along, that's not gonna be so easy."

"Lead on, Logan," said Dumbledore. "Let's finish this quickly, if we can."

Logan nodded and led the way down the steps. Anthea produced a small, dim, blackout torch that provided more than enough light for Logan's eyes. The air within the underground passage was stale but not rank, and the scents of the two men they were pursuing hung clearly in the air. Logan tracked them as quickly as was safe for his companions.

Following the shadowy form of their guide, Dumbledore felt Anthea slip her cool, slender hand into his.

"Miss Featherstone-" Dumbledore began, acutely aware that her attitude towards him was one he hadn't aroused in a woman for some years.

"_Mrs_ Featherstone, actually," she interrupted. "I'm a widow, and no, my husband didn't die in the War. He was stabbed by a burglar - just a wretched, hungry boy trying to steal enough to eat, but they hanged him anyway."

"Ah..." Dumbledore searched for words, but she stopped him by squeezing his hand.

"Not now, Albus. There's really nothing to say about it. Just...don't let go of my hand, please? We need to stay together."

Logan suddenly hissed, "They're close!"

Unfortunately, they were closer than he had thought. A brilliant light transfixed them, and Dumbledore heard again the sound of the Muggle weapon that had nearly killed them that afternoon.

Logan jerked, staggered and fell. Dumbledore shouted "_Expelliarmus!"_ The machine pistol flew from Maybach's hands. Anthea stepped forward and fired at the German, who gave a cry of pain as the bullet entered his shoulder, but nevertheless turned and began to run. Anthea pulled the trigger again, to be thwarted by nothing but a click.

"Damn! Oh, damn!" she swore. "I should have reloaded."

The light vanished, and von Schrader's voice came out of the dark. "Herr Professor, your foolishness has cost you the life of your friend - take varning from that. Where I go now, Carver's agents vill not find me. Return to your school, and prepare for the victory of the Reich!"

The sound of footsteps faded. Dumbledore said, "_Lumos!_"_._ In the light of his wand, he and Anthea stooped to examine their fallen friend. Logan was bleeding from a dozen wounds, but he was still breathing, still conscious.

"I'll...live," he gasped weakly. "Just...need...rest...time to...heal."

Anthea stretched a tremulous hand toward Logan. She looked toward Albus with a worried expression.

Dumbledore applied Mobilicorpus. Anthea's eyes grew wider as she watched Logan's prone body levitate, then float along the passageway in the direction from which they'd come while Albus maintained the spell. As they approached the room, they heard voices. Dumbledore lowered Logan to the floor, and touched Anthea's arm in warning. She listened, then went back to help Albus hoist Logan to his feet and support him.

Above, they found several men in rough clothing there, being directed by the same young Army officer Dumbledore had seen that afternoon.

"Ah. There you are," the officer said, as if greeting some guests arriving late for supper. "Bit of a bust-up, what? Goin' to have to pay off the landlord chappie in short order. I say, looks like the Colonial fella's taken quite a bashin', what?"

"Waverley," said Anthea, "we need somewhere safe and quiet for the rest of the night."

"Righto," responded the young man. "Got just the place. Nice little flat two squares over. Bureau owns it, so no questions asked, what? Come along. Got the motor outside, don'cher know?"

He turned to an older man who seemed to be supervising the other workers. "Dalton, can you and your chaps take care of things here?" The man grunted affirmatively. "Splendid fella. I'll get a gel to bring in some tea for you.

"Ready, Mrs Featherstone? Professor, I'll help you with the Sergeant."

Anthea leaned close to Dumbledore and whispered, "Waverley may look and sound like a chinless wonder, but he's as tough as the Commander, and almost as clever."

Certainly the young officer's slender build was deceptive, as he effortlessly relieved Dumbledore of more than half of Logan's considerable weight. They left the flat, climbing into a small motor-car, which Waverley drove expertly through the quiet streets to a square almost identical to the one they had just left.

The flat he brought them to was larger and, thankfully, cleaner than the other. Waverley and Dumbledore deposited Logan in a bedroom while Anthea found some First Aid supplies. Clearly, the place was well prepared for a special kind of tenant. Waverley said, "Have to use the telephone," and vanished, leaving Anthea and Dumbledore to see to Logan's wounds.

These were all in the upper torso and, as had happened that afternoon, most of the shots had gone completely through his body. The wounds were already closing and, as Logan's friends watched, a small piece of grey metal was pushed out of one to fall to the floor. Dumbledore picked it up and showed it to Anthea.

"It's a bullet," she whispered, awestruck. "His body's pushing them out like...like baby teeth."

Dumbledore shook his head, "He's lost a lot of blood, and he'll be in shock. I don't know what else we can do, now. Wish I had a Blood-Replenishing Potion." Albus considered Disapparating to St Mungo's to secure magical remedies, then dismissed the thought; Logan's unusual body might react badly.

In the end, they cleaned and lightly bandaged the wounds, more out of a need to help than any necessity. By now, Logan was deeply asleep, which Anthea judged the best thing for him. They left him and went back into the lounge, where Waverley was waiting for them.

"Just spoke to the Commander," he told them. "He says you're to stay here until he comes tomorrow. He'll be over about ten-hundred, so you can have a lie-in. Food in the kitchen, everythin' you need, so no need to go out. Canadian chappie should be right as rain by the mornin', he says.

"Just like to say meself, bang-up job over there! Flushed the cove out good and proper. Blighter'll probably go to ground again, but he's five men short, so gettin' at him'll be easier.

"Leave you to it, now, got things to do, don'cher know? Toodle-pip."

With that, he was gone.

Anthea sighed. "Albus, I have to go and powder my nose. Can you make some tea?"

Dumbledore went into the small kitchen, looked at the gas stove, the kettle and the array of packets in the cupboard, frowned, and pulled out his wand. By the time Anthea came back, he had a pot of piping hot tea and two cups ready.

They sat at the kitchen table, and Anthea lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. "I swiped some of Logan's Marlboros - all Andrew ever leaves in safe houses are those dreadful Senior Service."

After a moment of quiet, Anthea, for no real reason, began to talk. She told Dumbledore how her father was disowned by his family for marrying beneath him, but her grandfather settled his money on Anthea. She was to get the interest as an income once she turned twenty-one, but her father or husband was to have control of it unless she reached the age of twenty-five if still unmarried.

Then her parents fell into debt to a man called Silas Featherstone. Somehow, he'd heard of Anthea's money, and offered to write off the debt if she married him. So, at the age of seventeen, she was married to a fifty-five year-old man.

Silas was already rich; his father had made a fortune in South African gold and diamonds. But he was a penny-pinching skinflint, constantly pleading poverty. They lived in four rooms of a big, gloomy old house in Berkshire.

Anthea fulfilled her wifely duties, and the inevitable happened; she fell pregnant.

One day, a few months later, while standing with Silas on the landing of a staircase, Anthea fell. She rolled all the way down, and lay there bleeding, while Silas hovered over her, behaving solicitously. Her child, and her chances of ever having another, died that night.

Afterward, something Silas remarked chilled her to the bone and led her to suspect her fall had not been an accident. He said in a quiet, reasonable voice, "Anthea, my dear, it's time you stopped grieving. That event was a blessing in disguise. Surely you must understand that in our straitened circumstances, we simply could not afford the expense of a child."

Silas worried a lot about expenses and money, so much so that he didn't believe in banks. The Depression made no difference to the way they lived, except that they now slept separately.

Then a poor boy came down from London, looking for work on the farms. He couldn't find any, but he heard tales about the rich, old miser who lived with just his young wife in a big house. One night, he broke in, and Silas caught him. There was a fight, and Silas was stabbed, dying instantly. The scared, young man ran straight out of the house into the local constable. He had brought the knife - a German bayonet, a souvenir from the Great War - into the house with him. In the eyes of the jury, that made the crime murder, and the lad was hanged.

Anthea's father came down to help her go through the house. They found thousands, all in notes and gold sovereigns, and a box full of rough-cut diamonds almost beyond valuation. Silas had no living relatives; Anthea was his widow, over twenty-one by then, so it was all hers.

"So," she concluded, "I came to London, bought a little house, and I live the life of a comfortably-off young widow. As a widow, I have more freedom than a spinster, I suppose. At any rate, I go where I please, I don't need a chaperone, and I can have all the gentleman friends I want - or not, if I prefer, as long as I'm reasonably discreet, of course.

"Andrew Carver was one of my gentleman friends for a while, and when the War started, he asked me to come and work for him. He said I was too clever to serve tea or pack parachutes.

"So, here I am, talking your poor, patient ears off, Albus. I'm sorry, but I just wanted to tell somebody all of it. I've never done that before, but I somehow feel I can trust you."

Dumbledore reached over and squeezed her hand. "I'm honoured by your confidence, Mrs Featherstone."

"Anthea," she insisted. "Call me Anthea."

"Anthea, then," Dumbledore acquiesced. "It's growing late, Anthea, and we have both had a trying day. I suggest we retire for the night."

They checked on Logan, who was now in what seemed to be a deep, natural sleep. His bandages were clean and he was no longer bleeding.

As they headed for the bedrooms, Anthea turned at the door of hers and looked at him speculatively, "Albus...?"

"Goodnight, Anthea," he said quietly but firmly.

In the room, he found nightwear, some of which fitted well enough. He changed, and climbed into bed, switching out the light. Dumbledore lay awake for a moment or two, thinking about Anthea. Seventy, maybe as few as fifty, years ago, he wouldn't have hesitated to accept her subtle invitation. _Age doesn't make us wiser,_ he thought, _just more timid_. With that sobering thought in his head, he settled himself to sleep.

**Part 3: Descent into Madness**

_Rather surprisingly, after the day I had had, I slept better that night than I had since the trouble had started at Hogwarts earlier that year. But then, I had been able to take a more active role in the days' events. Action, even violent and dangerous action, is often better for one than brooding and worry._

_I was fortunate to have slept so well, as the following day was eventful in the extreme._

Dumbledore woke to the smell of frying bacon and the sound of quiet conversation. He got out of bed and slipped on a dressing gown, then followed his nose and ears to the kitchen.

Anthea was standing by the stove, wearing a silky kimono over her nightdress and deftly managing a frying pan while saying to Logan, who was sitting at the small table, "There's only dried egg, though. I'd give anything for a few fresh eggs to go with this bacon. She turned to Dumbledore, asking, "Morning, Albus. How did you sleep, dear?"

"I lay in the bed and closed my eyes - the rest came naturally," said Dumbledore with a smile. He was pleased to see that what had passed between them last night seemed not to have affected Anthea's attitude toward him.

She laughed now. "Oh, you're a caution! Help yourself to tea. I was just saying to Logan what a pity it is we've no fresh eggs."

Dumbledore looked at his Canadian friend. Logan was also wearing a dressing gown and was sitting at the table with a mug of tea in front of him. It was hard to imagine that a few hours ago, the man had been riddled with bullet holes.

"Good morning Logan, you're looking remarkably chipper," he said.

Logan shrugged. "Guess I'm just too ornery to stay down."

Dumbledore poured himself a mug of tea and took the opportunity to examine his friend more closely. Logan seemed in perfect health, but there was weariness about his eyes still. _Well, _thought Dumbledore, _anyone else would have been dead, so no wonder._ Aloud, he remarked, "There's something to be said for tenacity." He turned to Anthea. "About the eggs, I think I can help."

He tipped out the packet of dried egg onto the work surface and Transfigured the yellow, powdery substance into half-a-dozen large, fresh eggs. Anthea gave a delighted gasp and, as she had the previous night, kissed him lightly on the cheek, saying, "Oh, I like having a wizard about the house!"

Logan looked at them both, then said, "I left my smokes in the bedroom. Back in a minute."

As soon as they were alone, Anthea turned to Dumbledore. "Albus, I want to thank you for last night. No, don't say anything 'til I've finished. I know it would have been too soon. So thank you for stopping me from spoiling things between us."

Dumbledore took one of her hands. "I have to admit, my dear, I declined more out of cowardice than any gentlemanly feelings. It has been a long time since I had an encounter with a lady - since before you were born, I am sure. I was simply unsure of myself."

Anthea shook her head and smiled. "Somehow, I doubt that you've ever been that. But never mind. Let me get these lovely eggs in a pan, and we'll have a good breakfast."

They had a very good breakfast. Clearly, the mysterious Bureau that Anthea and Carver worked for provided very generously for its employees and guests. As well as the bacon and eggs, there was toast, tinned butter and Scotch marmalade. The only complaint was from Logan, who groused humorously, "Haven't you Limeys ever heard of coffee?"

Afterwards, they went into the lounge, Logan planting himself in an armchair while Anthea drew Dumbledore down onto the settee, sitting close beside him. They listened to the news on the wireless - Dumbledore knew of the Wizarding Wireless, of course, but had had no idea that Muggles possessed a similar device. Anthea and Logan discussed what they had heard, trying to sift out the truth from the propaganda. Dumbledore was eager to listen - it was becoming clear to him that the attitude of most wizards towards Muggle affairs was dangerously complacent.

Shortly after that, Commander Carver arrived, knocking briskly on the door. Anthea greeted him with a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Andrew! You've caught me undressed. You're always doing that," she scolded.

Carver grinned at her. "All part of my master plan, Anthea, dear. No, don't get up, gentlemen. I don't for a moment suppose there's a cup of tea going, is there?"

Anthea bustled off to the kitchen. Carver sank into the other armchair with a soft sigh. His uniform was rumpled, and his eyes had shadows under them, and as he settled down, he yawned into his hand. "Excuse me," he mumbled. "Only had an hour or two's sleep, I'm afraid. Be alright in a minute."

Bringing a tray of tea through, Anthea offered the first cup to Carver who, after a few sips, seemed somewhat restored. He was certainly sharp enough to question them all very thoroughly on the events of the previous night. Then he gave an account of his own activities.

"After you flushed von Schrader out, we were hoping he'd stay on the move. In that case, we could have had the police looking out for him. His dive underground was a bit of a surprise to us.

"The German spy network in Britain has been thoroughly compromised by MI5. Also, it's run by the _Abwehr_, Admiral Canaris' operation, and Canaris hates the Nazis. Von Schrader and Maybach would get no help there.

"Which leads me to suspect that von Schrader and other Nazi wizards have been planning this for some time, Apparating in to set up safe-houses, bolt-holes and Portkey sites.

"Von Schrader has gone to ground, and we'd have the Devil of a job finding him and winkling him out."

Carver lit a cigarette and drank some more tea, then resumed. "However, we're actually under less pressure than von Schrader. His masters will be looking for results PDQ."

He went on to explain that the group of Nazi wizards had been entrusted by Hitler to Reinhard Heydrich, head of the RSHA, Hitler's powerful intelligence and security organisation. But Heydrich had been assassinated the previous year. His successor, Kaltenbrunner, was anxious to erase all traces of Heydrich from the organisation - including the wizard group he'd enlisted.

"So if von Schrader fails, he takes the others down with him.

"We think he'll try attacking the Bureau directly. All but one of his SS men are gone, but he's got other resources.

"So we need to know exactly what he's planning. Professor Dumbledore, we have the man you Petrified last night at the Bureau now. It would be of some help to us if you could revive him so that we can interrogate him."

Dumbledore nodded. "Certainly, Commander. Might I also suggest obtaining a Veritaserum from St Mungo's? It would speed the process considerably. Normally, I would not suggest using such a potion on a Muggle, but under these circumstances..."

Carver nodded. "That would be a help. I'll drive you over myself, then drop you back here." He looked around them all. "Von Schrader isn't likely to do anything until tonight at the earliest. I want you three to get as much rest as you can because I'm going to need you all tonight. Sgt Logan, how are you feeling?"

Logan waved a hand dismissively. "I'm just fine, commander."

"No, you're not," said Anthea firmly. "That Maybach put a lot of holes in you, Logan. I know you can heal awfully fast, but you still look dog-tired. Some peace and quiet will do you the world of good."

Logan turned to Dumbledore. "Now you know why I never married."

"In order to avoid peace and quiet?" asked Dumbledore.

"No. So I could get some, sometimes."

"_Men!_" snorted Anthea.

Some hours later, Dumbledore returned to the flat. It had taken quite some time to persuade the authorities at St Mungo's to give him the potion, but it seemed that the Ministry of Magic knew of Carver, and eventually, permission had come through. Dumbledore had wanted to stay for the interrogation, but the Commander had insisted he return to the flat and rest.

As he let himself in, he saw Logan and Anthea sitting in the lounge. Logan was still in dressing gown and pyjamas, but Anthea was once again wearing a pretty, summer frock, and her long, blonde hair fell loose around her shoulders. Dumbledore watched her, suddenly subject to a kaleidoscope of feelings he had thought himself long past.

His train of thought was interrupted by a screeching female voice coming from the wireless set. "_Can I do yer now, sir?_"

Anthea collapsed in giggles; Logan grimaced. "I just don't get this program. You Limeys think the show's the cat's pajamas, but I can't see why."

"Oh, Logan!" Anthea wiped her eyes. "ITMA is just about the funniest thing I've ever heard, and you've not so much as cracked a smile."

"British humor, I guess. I've noticed it's weird. Me, I do think Lord Haw-Haw's sorta funny. What about you, Albus?"

"Don't ask me," Dumbledore replied. "We don't get Muggle broadcasts at Hogwarts. I listen to Wizarding Wireless Network for the Quidditch matches, that's all."

Before anyone could reply, a man's voice came from the wireless. "_But Colonel, it must have been the port engine._"

Another voice, over-loud and with a distinctly boozy tone to it, replied, "_Port and gin? I don't mind if I do._" Anthea promptly collapsed again.

Logan rolled his eyes as Dumbledore sat down. "Just what the heck is Quidditch? You mentioned it a few times yesterday. Some kind of game, right?"

"_Some kind of game?_" Dumbledore mimicked in mock outrage. "My dear fellow, it is the _only_ game! Quidditch is the sport of sports, pastime of heroes, etcetera and so forth."

"All right, all right. So give. How do you play it? Where do you play it? _Why_ do you play it?"

"Oh, if you two are going to discuss sport, _I'm_ going to make lunch," said Anthea, then stuck her tongue out at both men and flounced off to the kitchen.

Lunch turned out to be Spam sandwiches, though a jar of pickled onions lent some bounce to the pink blandness. Anthea had also discovered at the back of a cupboard a bottle of Camp coffee, which made a change from tea for all three of them.

The conversation started with Quidditch, but soon moved onto other matters. Dumbledore found his fascination with Muggles and their world growing; clearly, they were far more than the dull, ignorant or childlike creatures many wizards assumed they were. Their world was every bit as complex and full of wonders as his own - and much, much larger.

Soon enough, however, it became obvious that Logan was flagging. His contributions to the conversation began to be terse, and his eyelids were drooping.

Anthea glanced at him sharply, then said briskly, "Bed for you, my lad."

"I'm alright," he muttered, but Anthea would have none of it.

"You took enough bullets last night to give you lead poisoning, never mind anything else. I know you've got that special healing and what-have-you, but even you must be exhausted."

"She's right, Logan," put in Dumbledore. "Tonight may well be even more dangerous than last night. We need you on top form, my friend."

Grumbling, but grateful for his friend's solicitude, Logan went off back to his room. Dumbledore offered to help Anthea with the dishes, but she declined, "You sit there and relax, darling. I can manage these much quicker without a man under my feet."

Dumbledore settled back and tried to relax. But there was a knot of tension at the back of his neck that had, he realised, been there since the staff at Hogwarts first realised the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. He leaned forward with a sigh and tried to rub it away. Quite suddenly, Anthea was beside him, perched on the arm of the chair. Her cool hands gently pushed his aside and massaged his neck with surprising strength and no little skill.

Slowly, Albus felt the tension drain away. For the first time in months, he was close to feeling fully relaxed. He leaned back and turned his head to thank Anthea. As he did so, she leaned forward towards him, and their lips met as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It was not a greedy kiss - not a matter of passion and mere physical need. It was sweet, deep and sincere.

When it was over, Albus spoke quietly. "Anthea, my dear, we've only just met. I don't know how Muggles go about it, but surely it's usual to approach these things less directly?"

She gave a delighted little laugh and stroked his cheek, then spoke seriously. "Look, my sweet, we're in the middle of a war. None of us can say with certainty that we'll be alive tomorrow. Here we are, and there's something between us - something too good to let slip by.

"Now is now, and it might be all we have, so come to bed with me, Albus. Let's be all that we can to each other, while we have the chance."

Albus knew she was right, so he let her lead him to her bedroom. They kissed again, then undressed, and made slow, gentle love before falling into a deep, refreshing sleep, clasped in each other's arms.

It was about 9 o'clock that evening. After a hasty dinner, Lt Waverley had picked them up and driven them to the Bureau. Fortunately, Logan had risen rather later than Albus and Anthea, so he had found them both sitting demurely in the lounge. Yet, Albus had the feeling that their shrewd Canadian friend had an idea of what had gone on between them. Logan's heightened senses made him a hard man to fool; however, he said nothing, though his attitude seemed to indicate approval.

They found Commander Carver in the basement of the building, in what was apparently a firing range. He greeted them all, then got straight to business.

"According to our prisoner, von Schrader was planning to have the Manhattan documents taken by a professional burglar if he could find the location of the safe. That plan was thwarted yesterday by your intervention, gentlemen. He's getting desperate now, so he will be making a direct assault on this building from beneath. He doesn't have his SS men, but several known IRA agents and some East End 'hard men' have dropped out of sight today, and I suspect at least some of them will be with him.

"Normally, our own security people would handle any incursion, but in this case, we don't know what magical assistance von Schrader will have with him."

Carver led them over to a table on which was spread a map. It was not a street map, a bewildering number of lines, in various colours, crisscrossed each other with no apparent order or pattern. Carver explained, "London, like most ancient cities, is built mostly on itself. Layer upon layer of city exists. This entire area is a honeycomb of tunnels, passages and hidden ways."

Carver indicated a spot on the map. "Von Schrader knows of an entrance here that will bring him into this building: however, there is another passage we can take, which will allow us to intercept him in this underground chamber here. I don't want a lot of soldiers parading around down there, shouting orders and making a racket, or von Schrader will just disappear again. So it's just the four of us. Are you all game?"

There was no need to answer. A glance around the three set faces told Carver all he needed to know. "Right, let's get on with it, then."

It seemed that the Bureau's territory extended far beyond the narrow front it showed the world. The four passed rapidly through a number of basement rooms before reaching an ancient-looking, iron-bound door. Carver distributed torches to Anthea and Logan, then opened the door with a large, old-fashioned key, and led them through into another world.

There was no way of telling how old these passages were. Some of the masonry was as weathered and pitted as the stones of Hogwarts Castle, and that had stood for a thousand years. There were sinister gargoyles at the intersections and occasional daemonic faces carved into the walls.

Carver obviously knew these tunnels and led them without faltering until they came to a broken section of wall. He signalled them to gather round him. "This break lets onto a newer tunnel that runs alongside this one. The chamber we want is twenty yards along in the direction we were travelling. I'm hoping we got here before von Schrader. We go very quiet from now on."

They slipped through the gap, relying now on the faint light from Dumbledore's wand and upon Logan's night-vision. What happened next, happened suddenly. Logan held up a hand to halt the party, and a bulky figure stepped out of the shadows, making for Anthea and Carver. The Commander's movements were graceful, almost languid, but his apparently gentle blow connected with an explosive impact that threw his assailant back against the wall to crumple in a heap.

"Jeez!" muttered Logan. "Where did you learn to hit like that?"

They saw the flash of Carver's grin in the light of Dumbledore's wand. "There's a Shaolin temple in Limehouse; not many people know that. I was of some assistance to them when I was with the police, and in return, they were kind enough to teach me some unusual fighting techniques.

"Anyway, sleeping beauty here seems to indicate that we're getting close."

"We are," replied Logan. "There's a light up ahead. Looks like a hurricane lamp."

They were in quite a large chamber. Ahead of them, their route was partially blocked by fallen stone. They could also see a short tunnel leading into another room. It was from this room that the light Logan spoke of came. As they listened, they could also hear a single voice. Dumbledore could not make out the words, but their rhythmic cadences were familiar, and for some reason sent a chill through him. At Carver's gesture, they began to pick their way through the rubble towards the exit.

Then they heard voices behind them. Carver swore, spun and shone his torch back the way they had come. A half-dozen figures came dashing into the room, yelling. Seconds later came the flash and roar of firearms.

The four flung themselves behind large sections of rubble. Anthea and Carver drew their guns. Dumbledore shouted, "Carver! Von Schrader is in the other room."

"Right! You and Logan go and sort him out. Anthea and I will hold this lot off."

Dumbledore hesitated for a moment, then Anthea turned and looked at him, and her eyes were steel. "Go. I'll be fine."

"I'll come back for you," he promised, then turned and, with Logan beside him, dashed for the entrance. Behind them, Carver and Anthea began to return fire, and by the screams and grunts that followed, it seemed they were better shots than their opponents.

The two men reached the short tunnel. "Looks like it's just you and me, Logan." remarked Dumbledore.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, pal," Logan replied with a fierce grin.

There were four men in the other room. By the steady light of the hurricane lamp, Dumbledore saw von Schrader standing in front of a circle etched on the floor. He held his wand upright in front of him, and a lurid green light pulsed from its tip in time to his increasingly frenetic chanting.

One of the guards leapt at Dumbledore; he Stunned the man without stopping to think about it, utterly determined to halt whatever von Schrader was doing.

Logan had already taken care of the other man, but now he found himself facing Maybach again. The SS man had discarded or lost his Schmeisser; now he pulled out his Walther. But with room to manoeuvre, a pistol was no threat to the Canadian, who darted in fast and knocked the weapon out of the German's hand. Maybach leapt back, drawing a wicked-looking knife. With a grim chuckle, the man called Wolverine extended his claws and closed with his opponent.

Dumbledore's approach had forced von Schrader to abandon his rite of summoning. Now the two wizards duelled as they had the previous night. Von Schrader thought he was prepared for Dumbledore this time, but he was wrong. Dumbledore had recognised the ritual, had known that von Schrader was trying to bring some vile _thing_ into the world. Also, at the back of Albus' mind was the thought that Anthea was behind him, and he had promised to return for her.

Once again, the air between them shivered and crackled with magic, but this time, von Schrader was on the defensive almost from the start. Dumbledore pushed on relentlessly, anger and anxiety fuelling him to greater efforts. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a putrid, green glow throbbing and growing within the circle. Clearly the Summoning had reached a point where it was self-completing. Dumbledore had to down von Schrader and reverse the rite before it was too late.

Driven to his last recourse, von Schrader suddenly demonstrated his full courage and ruthlessness. In the face of Dumbledore's attacks, he dropped his shield, turned and hurled a fireball from his wand at Logan. Absorbed in his own bitter battle with Maybach, the Canadian had no chance to dodge. Albus did the only possible thing, deflecting the spell with a shield of his own, only to be knocked to the floor by an unexpected blow from the German.

Von Schrader turned back to the circle, raising his wand to begin binding the being that now stood fully formed within the circle. There was only one thing Albus could do now, something that placed him in as much peril as anyone else. He raised his wand and invoked "_Potentia Nullios!_" In that moment, all magical power was drained from both wizards. For a short while, they were reduced to Muggles.

The thing within the circle was the green-black of rotting vegetables, and stank of putrefaction. Its body was gross and squat, resting froglike on powerful, bent legs, and its overlong arms ended in huge, four-fingered hands, each finger tipped with a heavy black claw. Its face was a slobbering parody of humanity, with almost no forehead or nose, a wide, dripping mouth and great eyes black and empty as the Pit. It had been resisting the binding, but now, as von Schrader stood powerless before it, its great mouth stretched into a triumphant leer. The entity reached forward to grasp the screaming wizard and draw him to its maw. Von Schrader howled like the damned thing he was as the demon began to _suck_.

Dumbledore struggled to his feet; he knew he was to be next and there was nothing he could do about it. There was no chance of thwarting the creature until his power returned, but he also knew that von Schrader's Summoning would have set off alarms at the Ministry of Magic and that Aurors would be here soon. Their arrival would be too late for him, but would save everyone else. _Oh, Anthea,_ he thought, _such a little time we had! Be happy, dear one._

Then two things happened: Dumbledore heard Maybach's death-cry and Logan's oath as he saw the demon squatting in the circle. "Stay back, Logan!" Albus shouted desperately.

A moment later, there was a flash of scarlet and gold, and Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes, settled to the floor in front of him, dropping something at his feet. As the demon flung von Schrader to the floor, where he lay whimpering piteously, Dumbledore bent and picked up the object.

It was the Hogwarts Sorting Hat. _How? Why?_ thought Albus, before he realised that there was something _in_ the hat - something hard, heavy, and metallic. He reached into the hat and drew out a long, straight sword.

Albus Dumbledore had never handled a sword in his life, but the hilt of this one seemed to fit his hand naturally. As if from a distance, he watched himself drop the hat, step forward and aim a single, expert thrust at the demon even as it reached for him. The blade slid into the creature's belly to the hilt; there was a silent concussion and a blaze of white light that hurled Albus back into himself.

When his vision cleared, the demon was gone. He still held the sword, and now he heard a familiar voice - the voice of the Hat.

"Well struck, Dumbledore," it said. "A blow worthy of Godric, himself. But now you must return the sword to me, where it was put for safe keeping so long ago."

Albus stared at the ancient Hat. "How did you know I was in peril?" he asked.

"We are all the servants of Destiny," the Hat replied. "I was woven by the Fates long ago, and they direct us all. One day, Another will need the Sword, and it must be ready to his hand when the time comes."

Dumbledore nodded and picked up the Hat. He slid the sword into it, where it vanished easily. He tucked the Hat securely under his belt, then took up his wand, realising as he did so that his magic was returning.

Then Logan was at his side, asking, "Albus, are you all right, pal? What the Hell was that thing? Never mind-don't tell me now. There's still a gunfight goin' on out there."

_Anthea!_ Without a word, Dumbledore turned and ran back to the outer chamber. As he and Logan reached the doorway, the shooting stopped.

In the light from the hurricane lamp and several torches, they saw three men swarming at Commander Carver while another was aiming a weapon at Anthea, who lay on the ground.

With a snarl, Logan leapt to Carver's side, and the two men began to wreak havoc on their opponents. Albus ran towards Anthea. As he did so, Fawkes darted over his head and swooped at Anthea's attacker with a savage shriek. By the time the man had recovered, Dumbledore was between him and Anthea. The villain ripped out a vicious oath and raised his weapon. Dumbledore called out "_Protego!_" as the man fired both barrels of the sawn-off shotgun. The pellets bounced back off the shield, ripping the would-be killer to shreds.

Without sparing the man a glance, Albus knelt beside Anthea. Her face was ghastly, and an ominous stain was spreading on the front of her clothing. She smiled up at him weakly. "Albus?"

"I told you I'd come for you." Her hand was cold - too cold. Her voice was a whisper.

"Too late, my darling. I tried, but I couldn't stay safe for you. But at least I've seen you one last time." Her voice died away, and her eyes closed.

_No!_ Dumbledore couldn't speak, though he wanted to shout. She was still breathing - there must be hope.

Fawkes settled beside him. Bending his magnificent head over the young woman, the phoenix let thick, grey tears drop from his eyes onto the terrible wound.

For a moment, Albus Dumbledore's world hung in the balance.

Then Anthea stirred, and her eyes opened. "Albus? What happened? I was so cold, but now I'm warm again. How could that be?"

"Don't question it, dearest," he told her, "just believe it for now."

He looked up. Logan and Carver were watching them from a discreet distance. "She's going to be all right!" Albus announced joyfully.

Anthea's strength was returning rapidly due to the potency of the phoenix's tears. Soon, she was able to stand, and the pair looked around them. Fully a dozen men lay dead, wounded or unconscious in the chamber. As they wondered what to do next, there were lights and shouting, and squad of soldiers, accompanied by several Aurors, burst into the room. In the lead were Lt Waverley and an Auror Dumbledore recognised, a man named Carstairs.

Waverley spoke to the Commander, "Sorry to burst in like this, what? But Carstairs here turned up at the Bureau, sayin' there was a bit of a problem. Somethin' fishy goin' on down here he said. Thought you might be in a bit of a jam, so got a few fellas together and came down. Looks like you've got it all in hand, don'cher know?"

Carstairs said to Dumbledore, "The Demon Bell sounded, and the Sensitives located the source. What's happened?"

Dumbledore explained as best he could, while leading the Aurors, Logan, Anthea and Carver into the farther room. There they found the remains of von Schrader's circle, the slashed and gory corpse of Maybach, and von Schrader himself. The once-proud German wizard sat huddled in the corner, rocking backwards and forwards and mewling like child exhausted with crying. Whatever the demon had done to him had clearly broken his mind.

Leaving the Aurors to take care of von Schrader and Waverley and his men to clear up the rest, the four friends returned to the Bureau. There were rooms there for agents who might need to stay overnight - primitive accommodation, but clean - and the ever-present Doris provided tea and sandwiches. Anthea would not let go of Albus' hand, and in the end, they squeezed onto a narrow cot together and slept in each other's arms again.

The following evening found all four of them in the pub where Logan and Dumbledore had waited for their rendezvous with Anthea.

The day had been spent in debriefing. Events had had to be recounted both to Carver and to the Aurors, every detail gone over. Carver had been regretful, but philosophical, over the death of Maybach, whom he had wished to interrogate. Logan had been forced to kill the man in what had been a brutal, desperate fight.

"It's highly unlikely he would have told us anything, anyway," Carver opined. "Those SS men are fiercely loyal, even honourable, in a twisted kind of way."

Dumbledore had to explain his actions to the Aurors. "If von Schrader had bound the demon, I would have been hard put to defeat both of them. Unbound, and faced with two powerful wizards, the thing would have fled into Muggle London, causing who knows what havoc.

"But, facing two powerless humans, the thing would stop to do whatever it was it did - feed or something, I reckoned. So I used the Disempowerment Curse. I knew the Bell would sound and that Aurors would be on their way. I hoped that in the time it took for the creature to dispose of von Schrader and myself, the Aurors could reach us and deal with the thing. Compared to what it might have done to the poor Muggles above, the sacrifice of von Schrader and myself was a small price to pay."

Von Schrader had been taken to St Mungo's, and would probably never leave there - his mind was gone. Should he ever recover, his act of demon-summoning would earn him a long stay in Azkaban Prison. Carstairs privately told Dumbledore and Carver that the Ministry of Magic was now prepared to take active steps against any wizard attempting to intervene in the Muggle war or to draw wizards into the conflict. Albus, who'd been 'acting on behalf of the Ministry' faced no wizarding disciplinary action, but wizards coming from Germany, France and Japan would now be thoroughly examined by Aurors and confined to Diagon Alley and wizarding London for as long as they stayed.

"So," said Albus over his pint, "it's over, then?"

"Over?" said Carver. "No. Well, this particular little bit is, so I suppose it's over for you, Dumbledore, but for Anthea, Logan and me, there's still a long way to go."

Carver regarded the wizard appreciatively. "I'm very grateful for your help, Dumbledore, very grateful, indeed. If there's ever anything I can do for you, you need only ask." He handed Dumbledore a card, noting, "I can always be reached here. Just leave word, and I'll contact you."

Dumbledore thanked the Commander and said, "It's obvious that our two worlds are not so far apart as many people would like to think. If ever you need to consult with me about wizarding matters, Carver, I can always be reached at Hogwarts."

Carver then turned to Logan. "Sergeant, I'll put in a word or two with your CO for you. I'm sorry I can't do more, but this wasn't an _official_ operation. What I can and will do is arrange with the War Office to have your 'father's' medals sent on to you. I'll also arrange to 'lose' the files on the Howlett case - someone else might make the connections I did."

Logan nodded. "Thanks, Commander, though I'll bet there's not many as quick on the uptake as you."

"I hope not, or I'm out of a job! Look, Logan, if you're interested, there'll always be a position for you with the Bureau."

Logan shook his head. "No, thanks. I prefer a straight fight to all the cloak and dagger stuff. Anyway, I don't think I could bring myself to work for a grammar school boy."

Carver laughed. "Oh, well, if you're going to be stuck-up about it!" he said without rancour.

Shortly after that, Carver bade them goodnight and left. The three chatted for a while longer, then Logan said, "I'd better be getting back to my unit. Seconded or not, they'll be needing me. Somebody's got to keep that bunch of kids in order.

"Anthea, it's been a pleasure. You're quite a lady. I don't know what you'd do to Hitler, but you scare the Hell out of me!"

Anthea laughed, and kissed Logan lightly on the cheek. "Goodbye, Logan. Take care of yourself and keep out of trouble."

"No chance - trouble's my middle name."

Logan turned to Dumbledore. "Albus, pal, it's been a heckuva ride. I'm glad I went down that alley when I heard the ruckus. If I'd kept on walking, I'd have missed a good friend.

"Look, I got no idea where I'm gonna be, or what I'm gonna be doing from one week to the next. You've got to go back to that school of yours, way up North. So, what say we meet up here, in this pub, a year from today, if we can?"

Dumbledore smiled. "I'll look forward to it, Logan. It's been a very brisk couple of days, and I must say I've been glad of your company." The two men shook hands warmly, and so they parted.

Albus turned to Anthea. "Another drink, my dear?"

She declined. "Not now, Albus. I feel like doing something else. Are you allowed to show me wizarding London?"

"Of course. There are no laws about it, dear one, just custom."

Anthea thought the _Leaky Cauldron_ was charming, and the bustle of Diagon Alley at night enchanted her. But after a while, she said she was tired, so Dumbledore took her up to his rooms for a cup of tea and a sit down.

They talked for a while about the lives they lived and the differences and similarities between their worlds. Anthea wanted to know if wizards ever 'walked out' with Muggles, Dumbledore told her it happened quite often. She seemed more animated again, so Albus asked, "Is there anything else you'd like to see or do?"

"Oh, yes," she said, with a smile. "But it doesn't involve going anywhere."

She got up, came over to him, leaned down and gave him a long, loving kiss. Then she straightened and her sapphire eyes fixed on his. Anthea slowly began to undress.

_Von Schrader never recovered. He died in St Mungo's a year after the War ended._

_After these events, Charles, I began to take more notice of the Muggle world, and to read their newspapers. So it was that I knew, the following June, that Operation Overlord had begun, and that my friend Logan would be unlikely to make our rendezvous. This was indeed the case, and though I had occasional notes from him over the next few years, we eventually lost touch. I did not see him again until he accompanied you to our meeting last week, and alas, he did not remember me._

_Commander Carver and I were able to assist each other again on more than one occasion. He remained in charge of the Bureau until the 1970s, then retired to his beloved Malvern with his French wife, Marie. He passed away two years ago._

_Anthea Featherstone and I still have a deep and loving friendship. She, too, retired from the Bureau in the 1970s and became active in the Women's Movement. She still lives in Devon, not far from the Weasley home, and I visit her often, though we no longer have quite such an intense relationship. She was not the greatest love of my life - that is another story - but was perhaps the sweetest._

_As to how and why Fawkes came to me when he did, bringing the Hat and the Sword - it is still a mystery. The phoenix is the most magical of birds, and the Sorting Hat is as old as Hogwarts itself. Godric's Sword rests now in my study. You should ask Harry about that blade._

_But this is where my tale ends. How much or how little you tell Logan, I leave to your discretion, Charles. For my part, I will always regard him as a friend and was pleased to see him so well and content. I hope that this insight into his past will, in the proper time, help him to recover at least some of his memories._

_In the meantime, I am pleased to hear that my students are doing so well at your school. Your three youngsters seem most happy here. On a personal note, I look forward to our next meeting._

_With warmest regards,_

_Albus_

44


End file.
